I placed her passive hand in his-- With how much pain God only knows-- And blessing him for her sweet sake, I left him standing with my Rose! PHOEBE'S WOOING. "PHOEBE! Phoebe! Where is the chit? When I want her most she's out of the way. Child, you're running a long account Up, to be squared on Judgment-day. "Where have you been? and what have you there?" "To the pasture for buttercups wet with dew." "My patience! I think you are out of your wits; I wonder what good will buttercups do? "There's pennyroyal you might have got,-- It might have been useful to you or me, But I never heard, in all my life, Of buttercup cordial or buttercup tea. "I want you to stay and mind the bread, I've just put two loaves in the oven to bake; When they are clone take them carefully out, And put in their place this loaf of cake, "While I run over to Widow Brown's; Her son, from the mines, has just got back. I don't believe he's a cent in his purse, Young men are so shiftless now, alack! "It was very different when I was young; Young men were prudent, and girls were wise; You wouldn't catch them gadding about Like so many idle butterflies." So bustled and scolded the worthy dame, Until she had passed the outer sill, To do her justice, it seldom chanced That her hands were idle, or tongue was still. So Phoebe gathered her knitting up, And sat her down in the chimney niche; But her mind was on other thoughts intent, And here and there she dropped a stitch. The yellow kitten purred on the hearth, While the kitchen clock, with its frame of oak, In the corner stood, like a sentinel, And challenged time with its measured stroke. But Phoebe's mind was on none of these: The bread in the oven, her good aunt's frown, And the scene before her faded away, And blended with thoughts of Reuben Brown: How they walked together on summer days, Or bravely faced the winter's chill, And chatted merrily all the way To the little school-house on Sligo Hill. How both grew older, and school-days passed, When he was a youth, and a maiden she; How often she went with Reuben Brown To the rustic dance or the social bee. The warm flush deepened on Phoebe's cheek, And she breathed a low, half-conscious sigh; "Ah, well-a-day! they were happy times, But he has forgotten, and so must I." So Phoebe gathered her knitting up, Which, while she was thinking, had fallen down, When her quick ear caught a strange footfall, And there in the doorway stood Reuben Brown,